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Stolen
Tess Gerritsen
When the bullets finally ceased, the bodies lay in a coiled embrace on the lifeboat.The sinking of a cargo ship and the slaughter of its crew seemed a senseless act of violence. But Clea Rice knows the truth and is determined to expose the culprits. When Jordan Tavistock is asked to steal the indiscreet letters of a friend, he reluctantly obliges, only to be caught red-handed by another burglar. The burglar is Clea, who is looking for something else entirely.As Jordan finds himself caught up in a web of mystery and intrigue, he wonders how he can trust Clea when she will not tell him who she is working for, or even what her real name is. Only together, can they find the answers to the sinister questions surrounding the sinking of the ship. Answers that some are prepared to kill for to keep buried.


International bestselling author Tess Gerritsen gave up a career as a practising physician to write full time. She draws upon her experiences to bring all the tension and terrors of her thrillers to life. She lives in Camden, Maine, with her physician husband and two sons.
Also available from MIRA® Booksand Tess Gerritsen
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IN THEIR FOOTSTEPS
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NEVER SAY DIE
MURDER & MAYHEM

Stolen
Tess Gerritsen
This work was first published as Thief of Hearts by Harlequin Enterprises Limited in 1995.


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

MIRA is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited, used under licence.

Published in Great Britain 2009.
MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,
Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR

© Terry Gerritsen 1995

ISBN: 978-1-4089-2840-0
Version: 2018-07-18
In memory of Jum Heacock

“In thy face I see the map of honour, truth and loyalty.”
—Henry VI, Part III
William Shakespeare

PROLOGUE
SIMON TROTT stood on the rolling deck of the Cosima, and through the velvety blackness of night he saw the flames. They burned just offshore, not a steady fire, but a series of violent bursts of light that cast the distant swells in a hellish glow.
“That’s her,” the Cosima’s captain said to Trott as both men peered across the bow. “The Max Havelaar. Judging by those fireworks, she’ll be going down fast.” He turned and yelled to the helmsman, “Full ahead!”
“Not much chance of survivors,” said Trott.
“They’re sending off a distress call. So someone’s alive.”
“Or was alive.”
As they neared the sinking vessel, the flames suddenly shot up like a fountain, sending out sparks that seemed to ignite the ocean in puddles of liquid fire.
The captain shouted over the roar of the Cosima’s engines, “Slow up! There’s fuel in the water!”
“Throttling down,” said the helmsman.
“Ahead slowly. Watch for survivors.”
Trott moved to the forward rail and stared across the watery inferno. Already the Max Havelaar was sliding backward, her stern nearly submerged, her bow tipping toward the moonless sky. A few minutes more and she’d sink forever into the swells. The water was deep, and salvage impractical. Here, two miles off the Spanish coast, was where the Havelaar would sink to her eternal rest.
Another explosion spewed out a shower of embers, leafing the ripples with gold. In those few seconds before the sunlike brilliance faded, Trott spotted a hint of movement off in the darkness. A good two hundred yards away from the Havelaar, safely beyond the ring of fire, Trott saw a long, low silhouette bobbing in the water. Then he heard the sound of men’s voices, calling.
“Here! We are here!”
“It’s the lifeboat,” said the captain, aiming the searchlight toward the voices. “There, at two o’clock!”
“I see it,” said the helmsman, at once adjusting course. He throttled up, guiding the bow through drifts of burning fuel. As they drew closer, Trott could hear the joyous shouts of the survivors, a confusing babble of Italian. How many in the boat? he wondered, straining to see through the murk. Five. Perhaps six. He could almost count them now, their arms waving in the searchlight’s beam, their heads bobbing in every direction. They were thrilled to be alive. To be in sight of rescue.
“Looks like most of the Havelaar’s crew,” said the captain.
“We’ll need all hands up here.”
The captain turned and barked out the order. Seconds later the Cosima’s crew had assembled on deck. As the bow knifed across the remaining expanse of water, the men stood in silence near the bow rail, all eyes focused on the lifeboat just ahead.
By the searchlight’s glare Trott could now make out the number of survivors: six. He knew the Max Havelaar had sailed from Naples with a crew of eight. Were there two still in the water?
He turned and glanced toward the distant silhouette of shore. With luck and endurance, a man could swim that distance.
The lifeboat was adrift off their starboard side.
Trott shouted, “This is the Cosima! Identify yourselves!”
“Max Havelaar!” shouted one of the men in the lifeboat.
“Is this your entire crew?”
“Two are dead!”
“You’re certain?”
“The engine, she explodes! One man, he is trapped below.”
“And your eighth man?”
“He falls in. Cannot swim!”
Which made the eighth man as good as dead, thought Trott. He glanced at Cosima’s crew. They stood watching, waiting for the order.
The lifeboat was gliding almost alongside now.
“A little closer,” Trott called down, “and we’ll throw you a line.”
One of the men in the lifeboat reached up to catch the rope.
Trott turned and gave his men the signal.
The first hail of bullets caught its victim in midreach, arms extended toward his would-be saviors. He had no chance to scream. As the bullets rained down from the Cosima, the men fell, helpless before the onslaught. Their cries, the splash of a falling body, were drowned out by the relentless spatter of automatic gunfire.
When it was finished, when the bullets finally ceased, the bodies lay in a coiled embrace in the lifeboat. A silence fell, broken only by the slap of water against the Cosima’s hull.
One last explosion spewed a finale of sparks into the air. The bow of the Max Havelaar—what remained of her—tilted crazily toward the sky. Then, gently, she slid backward into the deep.
The lifeboat, its hull riddled with bullet holes, was already half submerged. A Cosima crewman heaved a loose anchor over the side. It landed with a thud among the bodies. The lifeboat tipped, emptying its cargo of corpses into the sea.
“Our work is done here, Captain,” said Trott. Matter-of-factly he turned toward the helm. “I suggest we return to—”
He suddenly halted, his gaze focused on a patch of water a dozen yards away. What was that splash? He could still see the ripples of reflected firelight worrying the water’s surface. There it was again. Something silvery gliding out of the swells, then slipping back under the water.
“Over there!” shouted Trott. “Fire!”
His men looked at him, puzzled.
“What did you see?” asked the captain.
“Four o’clock. Something broke the surface.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Fire at it, anyway.”
One of the gunmen obligingly squeezed off a clip. The bullets sprayed into the water, their deadly rain splashing a line across the surface.
They watched for a moment. Nothing appeared. The water smoothed once again into undulating glass.
“I know I saw something,” said Trott.
The captain shrugged. “Well, it’s not there now.” He called to the helmsman, “Return to port!”
Cosima came about, leaving in her wake a spreading circle of ripples.
Trott moved to the stern, his gaze still focused on the suspicious patch of water. As they roared away he thought he spotted another flash of silver bob to the surface. It was there only for an instant. Then, in a twinkling, it was gone.
A fish, he thought. And, satisfied, he turned away.
Yes, that must be what it was. A fish.

CHAPTER ONE
“A SMALL BURGLARY. That’s all I’m asking for.” Veronica Cairncross gazed up at him, tears shimmering in her sapphire eyes. She was dressed in a fetching off-the-shoulder silk gown, the skirt arranged in lustrous ripples across the Queen Anne love seat. Her hair, a rich russet brown, had been braided with strands of seed pearls and was coiled artfully atop her aristocratic head. At thirty-three she was far more stunning, far more chic than she’d been at the age of twenty-five, when he’d first met her. Through the years she’d acquired, along with her title, an unerring sense of style, poise and a reputation for witty repartee that made her a sought-after guest at the most glittering parties in London. But one thing about her had not changed, would never change.
Veronica Cairncross was still an idiot.
How else could one explain the predicament into which she’d dug herself?
And once again, he thought wearily, it’s faithful old chum Jordan Tavistock to the rescue. Not that Veronica didn’t need rescuing. Not that he didn’t want to help her. It was simply that this request of hers was so bizarre, so fraught with dire possibilities, that his first instinct was to turn her down flat.
He did. “It’s out of the question, Veronica,” said Jordan. “I won’t do it.”
“For me, Jordie!” she pleaded. “Think what will happen if you don’t. If he shows those letters to Oliver—”
“Poor old Ollie will have a fit. You two will row for a few days, and then he’ll forgive you. That’s what will happen.”
“What if Ollie doesn’t forgive me? What if he—what if he wants a…” She swallowed and looked down. “A divorce,” she whispered.
“Really, Veronica.” Jordan sighed. “You should have thought about this before you had the affair.”
She stared down in misery at the folds of her silk gown. “I didn’t think. That’s the whole problem.”
“No, it’s obvious you didn’t.”
“I had no idea Guy would be so difficult. You’d think I broke his heart! It’s not as if we were in love or anything. And now he’s being such a bastard about it. Threatening to tell all! What gentleman would sink so low?”
“No gentleman would.”
“If it weren’t for those letters I wrote, I could deny the whole thing. It would be my word against Guy’s, then. I’m sure Ollie would give me the benefit of the doubt.”
“What, exactly, did you write in those letters?”
Veronica’s head drooped unhappily. “Things I shouldn’t have.”
“Confessions of love? Sweet nothings?”
She groaned. “Much worse.”
“More explicit, you mean?”
“Far more explicit.”
Jordan gazed at her bent head, at the seed pearls and russet hair glimmering in the lamplight. And he thought, It’s hard to believe I was once attracted to this woman. But that was years ago, and he’d been only twenty-two and a bit gullible—a condition he sincerely hoped he’d outgrown.
Veronica Dooley had entered his social circle on the arm of an old chum from Cambridge. After the chum bowed out, Jordan had inherited the girl’s attentions, and for a few dizzy weeks he’d thought he might be in love. Better sense prevailed. Their parting was amicable, and they’d remained friends over the years. She’d gone on to marry Oliver Cairncross, and although Sir Oliver was a good twenty years older than his bride, theirs had been a classic match between money on his side and beauty on hers. Jordan had thought them a contented pair.
How wrong he’d been.
“My advice to you,” he said, “is to come clean. Tell Ollie about the affair. He’ll most likely forgive you.”
“Even if he does, there’s still the letters. Guy’s just upset enough to send them to all the wrong people. If Fleet Street ever got hold of them, Ollie would be publicly humiliated.”
“You think Guy would really stoop so low?”
“I don’t doubt it for a minute. I’d offer to pay him off if I thought it would work. But after all that money I lost in Monte Carlo, Ollie’s keeping a tight rein on my spending. And I couldn’t borrow any money from you. I mean, there are some things one simply can’t ask of one’s friends.”
“Burglary, I’d say, lies in that category,” noted Jordan dryly.
“But it’s not burglary! I wrote those letters. Which makes them mine. I’m only retrieving what belongs to me.” She leaned forward, her eyes suddenly glittering like blue diamonds. “It wouldn’t be difficult, Jordie. I know exactly which drawer he keeps them in. Your sister’s engagement party is Saturday night. If you could invite him here—”
“Beryl detests Guy Delancey.”
“Invite him anyway! While he’s here at Chetwynd, guzzling champagne—”
“I’m burgling his house?” Jordan shook his head. “What if I’m caught?”
“Guy’s staff takes Saturday nights off. His house will be empty. Even if you are caught, just tell them it’s a prank. Bring a—a blow-up doll or something, for insurance. Tell them you’re planting it in his bed. They’ll believe you. Who’d doubt the word of a Tavistock?”
He frowned. “Is that why you’re asking me to do this? Because I’m a Tavistock?”
“No. I’m asking you because you’re the cleverest man I know. Because you’ve never, ever betrayed any of my secrets.” She raised her chin and met his gaze. It was a look of utter trust. “And because you’re the only one in the world I can count on.”
Drat. She would have to say that.
“Will you do it for me, Jordie?” she asked softly. Pitifully. “Tell me you will.”
Wearily he rubbed his head. “I’ll think about it,” he said. Then he sank back in the armchair and gazed resignedly at the far wall, at the paintings of his Tavistock ancestors. Distinguished gentlemen, every one of them, he thought. Not a cat burglar in the lot.
Until now.

AT 11:05, THE LIGHTS WENT out in the servants’ quarters. Good old Whitmore was right on schedule as usual. At 9:00 he’d made his rounds of the house, checking to see that the windows and doors were locked. At 9:30 he’d tidied up downstairs, fussed a bit in the kitchen, perhaps brewed himself a pot of tea. At 10:00 he’d retired upstairs, to the blue glow of his private telly. At 11:05 he turned off his light.
This had been Whitmore’s routine for the past week, and Clea Rice, who’d been watching Guy Delancey’s house since the previous Saturday, assumed that this would be his routine until the day he died. Menservants, after all, strived to maintain order in their employers’ lives. It wasn’t surprising they’d maintain order in their own lives, as well.
Now the question was, how long before he’d fall asleep?
Safely concealed behind the yew hedge, Clea rose to her feet and began to rock from foot to foot, trying to keep the blood moving through her limbs. The grass had been wet, and her stirrup pants were clinging to her thighs. Though the night was warm, she was feeling chilled. It wasn’t just the dampness in her clothes; it was the excitement, the anticipation. And, yes, the fear. Not a great deal of fear—she had enough confidence in her own ability to feel certain she wouldn’t be caught. Still, there was always that chance.
She danced from foot to foot to keep the adrenaline pumping. She’d give the manservant twenty minutes to fall asleep, no longer. With every minute that passed, her window of opportunity was shrinking. Guy Delancey could return home early from the party tonight, and she wanted to be well away from here when he walked in that front door.
Surely the butler was asleep now.
Clea slipped around the yew hedge and took off at a sprint. She didn’t stop running until she’d reached the cover of shrubbery. There she paused to catch her breath, to reevaluate her situation. There was no hue and cry from the house, no signs of movement anywhere in the darkness. Lucky for her, Guy Delancey abhorred dogs; the last thing she needed tonight was some blasted hound baying at her heels.
She slipped around the house and crossed the flag-stone terrace to the French doors. As expected, they were locked. Also as expected, it would be an elementary job. A quick glance under her penlight told her this was an antique warded lock, a bit rusty, probably as old as the house itself. When it came to home security, the English had light years of catching up to do. She fished the set of five skeleton keys out of her fanny pack and began trying them, one by one. The first three keys didn’t fit. She inserted the fourth, turned it slowly and felt the tooth slide into the bolt notch.
A piece of cake.
She let herself in the door and stepped into the library. By the glow of moonlight through the windows she could see books gleaming in shelves. Now came the hard part—where was the Eye of Kashmir? Surely not in this room, she thought as the beam of her penlight skimmed the walls. It was too accessible to visitors, pathetically unsecured against thieves. Nevertheless, she gave the room a quick search.
No Eye of Kashmir.
She slipped out of the library and into the hallway. Her light traced across burnished wood and antique vases. She prowled through the first-floor parlor and solarium. No Eye of Kashmir. She didn’t bother with the kitchen or dining areas—Delancey would never choose a hiding place so accessible to his servants.
That left the upstairs rooms.
Clea ascended the curving stairway, her footsteps silent as a cat’s. At the landing she paused, listening for any sounds of discovery. Nothing. To the left she knew was the servants’ wing. To the right would be Delancey’s bedroom. She turned right and went straight to the room at the end of the hall.
The door was unlocked. She slipped through and closed it softly behind her.
Through the balcony windows moonlight spilled in, illuminating a room of grand proportions. The twelve-foot-high walls were covered with paintings. The bed was a massive four-poster, its mattress broad enough to sleep an entire harem. There was an equally massive chest of drawers, a double wardrobe, nightstands and a gentleman’s writing desk. Near the balcony doors was a sitting area—two chairs and a tea table arranged around a Persian carpet, probably antique.
Clea let out an audible groan. It would take hours to search this room.
Fully aware of the minutes ticking by, she started with the writing desk. She searched the drawers, checked for hidden niches. No Eye of Kashmir. She moved to the dresser, where she probed through layers of underwear and hankies. No Eye of Kashmir. She turned next to the wardrobe, which loomed like a monstrous monolith against the wall. She was just about to swing open the wardrobe door when she heard a noise and she froze.
It was a faint rustling, coming from somewhere outside the house. There it was again, louder.
She swiveled around to face the balcony windows. Something bizarre was going on. Outside, on the railing, the wisteria vines quaked violently. A silhouette suddenly popped up above the tangle of leaves. Clea caught one glimpse of the man’s head, of his blond hair gleaming in the moonlight, and she ducked back behind the wardrobe.
This was just wonderful. They’d have to take numbers to see whose turn it was to break in next. This was one hazard she hadn’t anticipated—an encounter with a rival thief. An incompetent one, too, she thought in disgust as she heard the sharp clatter of outdoor pottery, quickly stilled. There was an intervening silence. The burglar was listening for sounds of discovery. Old Whitmore must be deaf, thought Clea, if he didn’t hear that racket.
The balcony door squealed open.
Clea retreated farther behind the wardrobe. What if he discovered her? Would he attack? She’d brought nothing with which to defend herself.
She winced as she heard a thump, followed by an irritated mutter of “Damn it all!”
Oh, Lord. This guy was more dangerous to himself than to her.
Footsteps creaked closer.
Clea shrank back, pressing hard against the wall. The wardrobe door swung open, coming to a stop just inches from her face. She heard the clink of hangers as clothes were shoved aside, then the hiss of a drawer sliding out. A flashlight flicked on, its glow spilling through the crack of the wardrobe door. The man muttered to himself as he rifled through the drawer, irritated grumblings in the queen’s best English.
“Must be mad. That’s what I am, stark raving. Don’t know how she talked me into this…”
Clea couldn’t help it; curiosity got the better of her. She eased forward and peered through the crack between the hinges of the door. The man was frowning down at an open drawer. His profile was sharply cut, cleanly aristocratic. His hair was wheat blond and still a bit ruffled from all that wrestling with the wisteria vine. He wasn’t dressed at all like a burglar. In his tuxedo jacket and black bow tie, he looked more like some cocktail-party refugee.
He dug deeper into the drawer and suddenly gave a murmur of satisfaction. She couldn’t see what he was removing from the drawer. Please, she thought. Let it not be the Eye of Kashmir. To have come so close and then to lose it…
She leaned even closer to the crack and strained to see over his shoulder, to find out what he was now sliding into his jacket pocket. So intently was she staring, she scarcely had time to react when he unexpectedly grasped the wardrobe door and swung it shut. She jerked back into the shadows and her shoulder thudded against the wall.
There was a silence. A very long silence.
Slowly the beam of the flashlight slid around the edge of the wardrobe, followed cautiously by the silhouette of the man’s head.
Clea blinked as the light focused fully on her face. Against the glare she couldn’t see him, but he could see her. For an eternity neither of them moved, neither of them made a sound.
Then he said, “Who the hell are you?”
The figure coiled up against the wardrobe didn’t answer. Slowly Jordan played his torchlight down the length of the intruder, noting the stocking cap pulled low to the eyebrows, the face obscured by camouflage paint, the black turtleneck shirt and pants.
“I’m going to ask you one last time,” Jordan said. “Who are you?”
He was answered with a mysterious smile. The sight of it surprised him. That’s when the figure in black sprang like a cat. The impact sent Jordan staggering backward against the bedpost. At once the figure scrambled toward the balcony. Jordan lunged and managed to grab a handful of pant leg. They both tumbled to the floor and collided with the writing desk, letting loose a cascade of pens and pencils. His opponent squirmed beneath him and rammed a knee into Jordan’s groin. In the onrush of pain and nausea, Jordan almost let go. His opponent got one hand free and was scrabbling about on the floor. Almost too late Jordan saw the pointed tip of a letter opener stabbing toward him.
He grabbed his opponent’s wrist and savagely wrestled away the letter opener. The other man struck back just as savagely, arms flailing, body twisting like an eel. As Jordan fought to control those pummeling fists, he snagged his opponent’s stocking cap.
A luxurious fountain of blond hair suddenly tumbled out across the floor, to ripple in a shimmering pool under the moonlight. Jordan stared in astonishment.
A woman.
For an endless moment they stared at each other, their breaths coming hard and fast, their hearts thudding against each other’s chests.
A woman.
Without warning his body responded in a way that was both automatic and unsuppressibly male. She was too warm, too close. And very, very female. Even through their clothes, those soft curves were all too apparent. Just as the state of his arousal must be firmly apparent to her.
“Get off me,” she whispered.
“First tell me who you are.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll—I’ll—”
She smiled up at him, her mouth so close, so tempting he completely lost his train of thought.
It was the creak of approaching footsteps that made his brain snap back into function. Light suddenly spilled under the doorway and a man’s voice called, “What’s this, now? Who’s in there?”
In a flash both Jordan and the woman were on their feet and dashing to the balcony. The woman was first over the railing. She scrambled like a monkey down the wisteria vine. By the time Jordan hit the ground, she was already sprinting across the lawn.
At the yew hedge he finally caught up with her and pulled her to a halt. “What were you doing in there?” he demanded.
“What were you doing in there?” she countered.
Back at the house the bedroom lights came on, and a voice yelled from the balcony, “Thieves! Don’t you come back! I’ve called the police!”
“I’m not hanging around here,” said the woman, and made a beeline for the woods.
Jordan sighed. “She does have a point.” And he took off after her.
For a mile they slogged it out together, dodging brambles, ducking beneath branches. It was rough terrain, but she seemed tireless, moving at the steady pace of someone in superb condition. Only when they’d reached the far edge of the woods did he notice that her breathing had turned ragged.
He was ready to collapse.
They stopped to rest at the edge of a field. The sky was cloudless, the moonlight thick as milk. Wind blew, warm and fragrant with the smell of fallen leaves.
“So tell me,” he managed to say between gulps of air, “do you do this sort of thing for a living?”
“I’m not a thief. If that’s what you’re asking.”
“You act like a thief. You dress like a thief.”
“I’m not a thief.” She sagged back wearily against a tree trunk. “Are you?”
“Of course not!” he snapped.
“What do you mean, of course not? Is it beneath your precious dignity or something?”
“Not at all. That is—I mean—” He stopped and shook his head in confusion. “What do I mean?”
“I haven’t the faintest,” she said innocently.
“I’m not a thief,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I was…playing a bit of a practical joke. That’s all.”
“I see.” She tilted her head up to look at him, and her expression was plainly skeptical in the moonlight. Now that they weren’t grappling like savages, he realized she was quite petite. And, without a doubt, female. He remembered how snugly her sweet curves had fit beneath him, and suddenly desire flooded through his body, a desire so intense it left him aching. All he had to do was step close to this woman and those blasted hormones kicked in.
He stepped back and forced himself to focus on her face. He couldn’t quite make it out under all that camouflage paint, but it would be easy to remember her voice. It was low and throaty, almost like a cat’s growl. Definitely not English, he thought. American?
She was still eyeing him with a skeptical look. “What did you take out of the wardrobe?” she asked. “Was that part of the practical joke?”
“You…saw that?”
“I did.” Her chin came up squarely in challenge. “Now convince me it was all a prank.”
Sighing, he reached under his jacket. At once she jerked back and pivoted around to flee. “No, it’s all right!” he assured her. “It’s not a gun or anything. It’s just this pouch I’m wearing. Sort of a hidden backpack.” He unzipped the pouch. She stood a few feet away, watching him warily, ready to sprint off at the first whiff of danger. “It’s a bit sophomoric, really,” he said, tugging at the pouch. “But it’s good for a laugh.” The contents suddenly flopped out and the woman gave a little squeak of fright. “See? It’s not a weapon.” He held it out to her. “It’s an inflatable doll. When you blow it up, it turns into a naked woman.”
She moved forward, eyeing the limp rubber doll. “Anatomically correct?” she inquired dryly.
“I’m not sure, really. I mean, er…” He glanced at her, and his mind suddenly veered toward her anatomy. He cleared his throat. “I haven’t checked.”
She regarded him the way one might look at an object of pity.
“But it does prove I was there on a prank,” he said, struggling to stuff the deflated doll back in the pouch.
“All it proves,” she said, “is that you had the foresight to bring an excuse should you be caught. Which, in your case, was a distinct possibility.”
“And what excuse did you bring? Should you be caught?”
“I wasn’t planning on getting caught,” she said, and started across the field. “Everything was going quite well, as a matter of fact. Until you bumbled in.”
“What was going quite well? The burglary?”
“I told you, I’m not a thief.”
He followed her through the grass. “So why did you break in?”
“To prove a point.”
“And that point was?”
“That it could be done. I’ve just proven to Mr. Delancey that he needs a security system. And my company’s the one to install it.”
“You work for a security company?” He laughed. “Which one?”
“Why do you ask?”
“My future brother-in-law’s in that line of work. He might know your firm.”
She smiled back at him, her lips immensely kissable, her teeth a bright arc in the night. “I work for Nimrod Associates,” she said. Then, turning, she walked away.
“Wait. Miss—”
She waved a gloved hand in farewell, but didn’t look back.
“I didn’t catch your name!” he said.
“And I didn’t catch yours,” she said over her shoulder. “Let’s keep it that way.”
He saw her blond hair gleam faintly in the darkness. And then, in a twinkling, she was gone. Her absence seemed to leave the night colder, the darkness deeper. The only hint that she’d even been there was his residual ache of desire.
I shouldn’t have let her go, he thought. I know bloody well she’s a thief. But what could he have done? Hauled her to the police? Explained that he’d caught her in Guy Delancey’s bedroom, where neither one of them belonged?
With a weary shake of his head, he turned and began the long tramp to his car, parked a half mile away. He’d have to hurry back to Chetwynd. It was getting late and he’d be missed at the party.
At least his mission was accomplished; he’d stolen Veronica’s letters back. He’d hand them over to her, let her lavish him with thanks for saving her precious hide. After all, he had saved her hide, and he was bloody well going to tell her so.
And then he was going to strangle her.

CHAPTER TWO
THE PARTY AT Chetwynd was still in full swing. Through the ballroom windows came the sounds of laughter and violin music and the cheery clink of champagne glasses. Jordan stood in the driveway and considered his best mode of entry. The back stairs? No, he’d have to walk through the kitchen, and the staff would certainly find that suspicious. Up the trellis to Uncle Hugh’s bedroom? Definitely not; he’d done enough tangling with vines for the night. He’d simply waltz in the front door and hope the guests were too deep in their cups to notice his disheveled state.
He straightened his bow tie and brushed the twigs off his jacket. Then he let himself in the front door.
To his relief, no one was in the entrance hall. He tiptoed past the ballroom doorway and started up the curving staircase. He was almost to the second-floor landing when a voice called from below.
“Jordie, where on earth have you been?”
Suppressing a groan, Jordan turned and saw his sister, Beryl, standing at the bottom of the stairs. She was looking flushed and lovelier than ever, her black hair swirled elegantly atop her head, her bared shoulders lustrous above the green velvet gown. Being in love certainly agreed with her. Since her engagement to Richard Wolf a month ago, Jordan had seldom seen her without a smile on her face.
At the moment she was not smiling.
She stared at his wrinkled jacket, his soiled trouser legs and muddy shoes. She shook her head. “I’m afraid to ask.”
“Then don’t.”
“I’ll ask anyway. What happened to you?”
He turned and continued up the stairs. “I went out for a walk.”
“That’s all?” She bounded up the steps after him in a rustle of skirts and stockings. “First you make me invite that horrid Guy Delancey—who, by the way, is drinking like a fish and going ‘round pinching ladies’ bottoms. Then you simply vanish from the party. And you reappear looking like that.”
He went into his bedroom.
She followed him.
“It was a long walk,” he said.
“It’s been a long party.”
“Beryl.” He sighed, turning to face her. “I really am sorry about Guy Delancey. But I can’t talk about it right now. I’d be betraying a confidence.”
“I see.” She went to the door, then glanced back. “I can keep a secret, you know.”
“So can I.” Jordan smiled. “That’s why I’m not saying a thing.”
“Well, you’d best change your clothes, then. Or someone’s going to ask why you’ve been climbing wisteria vines.” She left, shutting the door behind her.
Jordan looked down at his jacket. Only then did he notice the leaf, poking like a green flag from his buttonhole.
He changed into a fresh tuxedo, combed the twigs from his hair and went downstairs to rejoin the party.
Though it was past midnight, the champagne was still flowing and the scene in the ballroom was as jolly as when he’d left it an hour and a half earlier. He swept up a glass from a passing tray and eased back into circulation. No one mentioned his absence; perhaps no one had noticed it. He worked his way across the room to the buffet table, where a magnificent array of hors d’oeuvres had been laid out, and he helped himself to the Scottish salmon. Breaking and entering was hard work, and he was famished.
A whiff of perfume, a hand brushing his arm, made him turn. It was Veronica Cairncross. “Well?” she whispered anxiously. “How did it go?”
“Not exactly clockwork. You were wrong about the butler’s night off. There was a manservant in the house. I could have been caught.”
“Oh, no,” she moaned softly. “Then you didn’t get them…”
“I got them. They’re upstairs.”
“You did?” A smile of utter happiness burst across her face. “Oh, Jordie!” She leaned forward and threw her arms around him, smearing salmon on his tuxedo. “You saved my life.”
“I know, I know.” He suddenly spotted Veronica’s husband, Oliver, moving toward them. At once Jordan extricated himself from her embrace. “Ollie’s coming this way,” he whispered.
“Is he?” Veronica turned and automatically beamed her thousand-watt smile at Sir Oliver. “Darling, there you are! I lost track of you.”
“You don’t seem to be missing me much,” grunted Sir Oliver. He frowned at Jordan, as though trying to divine his real intentions.
Poor fellow, thought Jordan. Any man married to Veronica was deserving of pity. Sir Oliver was a decent enough fellow, a descendant of the excellent Cairncross family, manufacturers of tea biscuits. Though twenty years older than his wife, and bald as a cue ball, he’d managed to win Veronica’s hand—and to keep that hand well studded with diamonds.
“It’s getting late,” said Oliver. “Really, Veronica, shouldn’t we be going home?”
“So soon? It’s just past midnight.”
“I have that meeting in the morning. And I’m quite tired.”
“Well, I suppose we’ll have to be going, then,” Veronica said with a sigh. She smiled slyly at Jordan. “I think I’ll sleep well tonight.”
Just see that it’s with your husband, thought Jordan with a shake of his head.
After the Cairncrosses had departed, Jordan glanced down and saw the greasy sliver of salmon clinging to his lapel. Drat, another tuxedo bites the dust. He wiped away the mess as best he could, picked up his glass of champagne and waded back into the crowd.
He cornered his future brother-in-law, Richard Wolf, near the musicians. Wolf was looking happy and dazed—just the way one expected a prospective bridegroom to look.
“So how’s our guest of honor holding up?” asked Jordan.
Richard grinned. “Giving the old handshake a rest.”
“Good idea to pace oneself.” Jordan’s gaze shifted toward the source of particularly raucous laughter. It was Guy Delancey, clearly well soused and leaning close to a buxom young thing. “Unfortunately,” Jordan observed, “not everyone here believes in pacing himself.”
“No kidding,” said Wolf, also looking at Delancey. “You know, that fellow tried to put the make on Beryl tonight. Right under my nose.”
“And did you defend her honor?”
“Didn’t have to,” said Richard with a laugh. “She does a pretty good job of defending herself.”
Delancey’s hand was now on Miss Buxom’s lower back. Slowly that hand began to slide down toward dangerous terrain.
“What do women see in a guy like that, anyway?” asked Richard.
“Sex appeal?” said Jordan. Delancey did, after all, have rather dashing Spanish looks. “Who knows what attracts women to certain men?” Lord only knew what had attracted Veronica Cairncross to Guy. But she was rid of him now. If she was sensible, she’d damn well stay on the straight and narrow.
Jordan looked at Richard. “Tell me, have you ever heard of a security firm called Nimrod Associates?”
“Is that based here or abroad?”
“I don’t know. Here, I imagine.”
“I haven’t heard of it. But I could check for you.”
“Would you? I’d appreciate it.”
“Why are you interested in this firm?”
“Oh…” Jordan shrugged. “The name came up in the course of the evening.”
Richard was looking at him thoughtfully. Damn, it was that intelligence background of his, an aspect of Richard Wolf that could be either a help or a nuisance. Richard’s antennae were out now, the questions forming in his head. Jordan would have to be careful.
Luckily, Beryl sauntered up at that moment to bestow a kiss on her intended. Any questions Richard may have entertained were quickly forgotten as he bent to press his lips to his fiancée’s upturned mouth. Another kiss, a hungry twining of arms, and poor old Richard was oblivious to the rest of the world.
Ah, young lovers, sizzling in hormones, thought Jordan and polished off his drink. His own hormones were simmering tonight as well, helped along by the pleasant buzz of champagne.
And by thoughts of that woman.
He couldn’t seem to get her out of his thick head. Not her voice, nor her laugh, nor the catlike litheness of her body twisting beneath his…
Quickly he set his glass down. No more champagne tonight. The memories were intoxicating enough. He glanced around for the tray of soda water and spotted his uncle Hugh entering the ballroom.
All evening Hugh had played genial host and proud uncle to the future bride. He’d happily guzzled champagne and flirted with ladies young enough to be his granddaughters. But at this particular moment Uncle Hugh was looking vexed.
He crossed the room, straight toward Guy Delancey. The two men exchanged a few words and Delancey’s chin shot up. An instant later an obviously upset Delancey strode out of the ballroom, calling loudly for his car.
“Now what’s going on?” said Jordan.
Beryl, her cheeks flushed and pretty from Richard’s kissing, turned to look as Uncle Hugh wandered in their direction. “He’s obviously not happy.”
“Dreadful way to finish off the evening,” Hugh was muttering.
“What happened?” asked Beryl.
“Guy Delancey’s man called to report a burglary at the house. Seems someone climbed up the balcony and walked straight into the master bedroom. Imagine the cheek! And with the butler at home, too.”
“Was anything stolen?” asked Richard.
“Don’t know yet.” Hugh shook his head. “Almost makes one feel a bit guilty, doesn’t it?”
“Guilty?” Jordan forced a laugh from his throat. “Why?”
“If we hadn’t invited Delancey here tonight, the burglar wouldn’t have had his chance.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Jordan. “The burglar—I mean, if it was a burglar—”
“Why wouldn’t it be a burglar?” asked Beryl.
“It’s just—one shouldn’t draw conclusions.”
“Of course it’s a burglar,” said Hugh. “Why else would one break into Guy’s house?”
“There could be other…explanations. Couldn’t there?”
No one answered.
Smiling, Jordan took a sip of soda water. But the whole time he felt his sister’s gaze, watching him closely.
Suspiciously.

THE PHONE WAS RINGING when Clea returned to her hotel room. Before she could answer it, the ringing stopped, but she knew it would start up again. Tony must be anxious. She wasn’t ready to talk to him yet. Eventually she would have to, of course, but first she needed a chance to recover from the night’s near catastrophe, a chance to figure out what she should do next. What Tony should do next.
She rooted around in her suitcase and found the miniature bottle of brandy she’d picked up on the airplane. She went into the bathroom, poured out a splash into a water glass and stood sipping the drink, staring dejectedly at her reflection in the mirror. In the car she’d managed to wipe away most of the camouflage paint, but there were still smudges of it on her temples and down one side of her nose. She turned on the faucet, wet a facecloth and scrubbed away the rest of the paint.
The phone was ringing again.
Carrying her glass, she went into the bedroom and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Clea?” said Tony. “What happened?”
She sank onto the bed. “I didn’t get it.”
“Did you get in the house?”
“Of course I got in!” Then, more softly, she said, “I was close. So close. I searched the downstairs, but it wasn’t there. I’d just gotten upstairs when I was rudely interrupted.”
“By Delancey?”
“No. By another burglar. Believe it or not.” She managed a tired laugh. “Delancey’s house seems to be quite the popular place to rob.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Then Tony asked a question that instantly chilled her. “Are you sure it was just a burglar? Are you sure it wasn’t one of Van Weldon’s men?”
At the mention of that name, Clea’s fingers froze around the glass of brandy. “No,” she murmured.
“It’s possible, isn’t it? They may have figured out what you’re up to. Now they’ll be after the Eye of Kashmir.”
“They couldn’t have followed me! I was so careful.”
“Clea, you don’t know these people—”
“The hell I don’t!” she retorted. “I know exactly who I’m dealing with!”
After a pause Tony said softly, “I’m sorry. Of course you know. You know better than anyone. But I’ve had my ear to the ground. I’ve been hearing things.”
“What things?”
“Van Weldon’s got friends in London. Friends in high places.”
“He has friends everywhere.”
“I’ve also heard…” Tony’s voice dropped. “They’ve upped the ante. You’re worth a million dollars to them, Clea. Dead.”
Her hands were shaking. She took a desperate gulp of brandy. At once her eyes watered, tears of rage and despair. She blinked them away.
“I think you should try the police again,” Tony said.
“I’m not repeating that mistake.”
“What’s the alternative? Running for the rest of your life?”
“The evidence is there. All I have to do is get my hands on it. Then they’ll have to believe me.”
“You can’t do it on your own, Clea!”
“I can do it. I’m sure I can.”
“Delancey will know someone’s broken in. Within twenty-four hours he’ll have his house burglarproof.”
“Then I’ll get in some other way.”
“How?”
“By walking in his front door. He has a weakness, you know. For women.”
Tony groaned. “Clea, no.”
“I can handle him.”
“You think you can—”
“I’m a big girl, Tony. I can deal with a man like Delancey.”
“This makes me sick. To think of you and…” He made a sound of disgust. “I’m going to the police.”
Firmly Clea set down her glass. “Tony,” she said. “There’s no other way. I have some breathing space now. A week, maybe more before Van Weldon figures out where I am. I have to make the most of it.”
“Delancey may not be so easy.”
“To him I’ll just be another dimwitted bimbo. A rich one, I think. That should get his attention.”
“And if he gives you too much attention?”
Clea paused. The thought of actually making love to that oily Guy Delancey was enough to nauseate her. With any luck, it would never get that far.
She’d see to it it never got that far.
“I’ll handle it,” she said. “You just keep your ear to the ground. Find out if anything else has come up for sale. And stay out of sight.”
After she’d hung up, Clea sat on the bed, thinking about the last time she’d seen Tony. It had been in Brussels. They’d both been happy, so very happy! Tony had had a brand-new wheelchair, a sporty edition, he called it, for upper-body athletes. He had just received a fabulous commission for the sale of four medieval tapestries to an Italian industrialist. Clea had been about to leave for Naples, to finalize the purchase. Together they had celebrated not just their good fortune but the fact they’d finally found their way out of the darkness of their youth. The darkness of their shared past. They’d laughed and drunk wine and talked about the men in her life, the women in his, and about the peculiar hazards of courting from a wheelchair. Then they’d parted.
What a difference a month made.
She reached for her glass and drained the last of the brandy. Then she went to her suitcase and dug around in her clothes until she found what she was looking for: the box of Miss Clairol. She stared at the model’s hair on the box, wondering if perhaps she should have chosen something more subtle. No, Guy Delancey wasn’t the type to go for subtle. Brazen was more his style.
And “cinnamon red” should do the trick. “I’VE CHECKED THE NAME Nimrod Associates,” said Richard. “There’s no such security firm. At least, not in England.”
The three of them were sitting on the terrace, enjoying a late breakfast. As usual, Beryl and Richard were snuggling cheek to cheek, laughing and darting amorous glances at each other. In short, behaving precisely as one would expect a newly engaged couple to behave. Some of that snuggling might be due to the unexpected chill in the air. Summer was definitely over, Jordan thought with regret. But the sun was shining, the gardens still clung stubbornly to their blossoms and a bracing breakfast on the terrace was just the thing to clear the fog of last night’s champagne from his head.
Now, after two cups of coffee, Jordan’s brain was finally starting to function. It wasn’t just the champagne that had left him feeling muddled this morning; it was the lack of sleep. Several times in the night he’d awakened, sweating, from the same dream.
About the woman. Though her face had been obscured by darkness, her hair was a vivid halo of silvery ripples. She had reached up to him, her fingers caressing his face, her flesh hot and welcoming. As their lips had met, as his hands had slid into those silvery coils of hair, he’d felt her body move against his in that sweet and ancient dance. He’d gazed into her eyes. The eyes of a panther.
Now, by the light of morning, the symbolism of that nightmare was all too clear. Panthers. Dangerous women.
He shook off the image and poured himself another cup of coffee.
Beryl took a nibble of toast and marmalade, the whole time watching him. “Tell me, Jordie,” she said. “Where did you hear about Nimrod Associates?”
“What?” Jordan glanced guiltily at his sister. “Oh, I don’t know. A while ago.”
“I thought it came up last night,” said Richard.
Jordan reached automatically for a slice of toast. “Yes, I suppose that’s when I heard it. Veronica must have mentioned the name.”
Beryl was still watching him. This was the downside of being so close to one’s sister; she could tell when he was being evasive.
“I notice you’re rather chummy with Veronica Cairncross these days,” she observed.
“Oh, well.” He laughed. “We try to keep up the friendship.”
“At one time, I recall, it was more than friendship.”
“That was ages ago.”
“Yes. Before she was married.”
Jordan looked at her with feigned astonishment. “You’re not thinking…good Lord, you can’t possibly imagine…”
“You’ve been acting so odd lately. I’m just trying to figure out what’s wrong with you.”
“Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with me.” Save for the fact I’ve recently taken up a life of crime, he thought.
He took a sip of tepid coffee and almost choked on it when Richard said, “Look. It’s the police.”
An official car had turned onto Chetwynd’s private road. It pulled into the gravel driveway and out stepped Constable Glenn, looking trim and snappy in uniform. He waved to the trio on the terrace.
As the policeman came up the steps, Jordan thought, This is it, then. I’ll be ignominiously hauled off to prison. My face in the papers, my name disgraced…
“Good morning to you all,” said Constable Glenn cheerily. “May I inquire if Lord Lovat’s about?”
“You’ve just missed him,” said Beryl. “Uncle Hugh’s gone off to London for the week.”
“Oh. Well, perhaps I should speak with you, then.”
“Do sit down.” Beryl smiled and indicated a chair. “Join us for some breakfast.”
Oh, lovely, thought Jordan. What would she offer him next? Tea? Coffee? My brother, the thief?
Constable Glenn sat down and smiled primly at the cup of coffee set before him. He took a sip, careful not to let his mustache get wet. “I suppose,” he said, setting his cup down, “that you know about the robbery at Mr. Delancey’s residence.”
“We heard about it last night,” said Beryl. “Have you any leads?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. We have a pretty good idea what we’re dealing with here.” Constable Glenn looked at Jordan and smiled.
Weakly, Jordan smiled back.
“A matter of excellent police work, I’m sure,” said Beryl.
“Well, not exactly,” admitted the constable. “More a case of carelessness on the burglar’s part. You see, she dropped her stocking cap. We found it in Mr. Delancey’s bedroom.”
“She?” said Richard. “You mean the burglar’s a woman?”
“We’re going on that assumption, though we could be wrong. There was a very long strand of hair in the cap. Blond. It would’ve reached well below her—or his—shoulders. Does that sound like anyone you might know?” Again he looked at Jordan.
“No one I can think of,” Jordan said quickly. “That is—there are some blondes in our circle of acquaintances. But not a burglar among them.”
“It could be anyone. Anyone at all. It’s not the first break-in we’ve had in this neighborhood. Three just this year. And the culprit might even be someone you know. You’d be surprised, Mr. Tavistock, what sort of misbehavior occurs, even in your social circle.”
Jordan cleared his throat. “I can’t imagine.”
“This woman, whoever she is, is quite bold. She entered through a downstairs locked door. Got upstairs without alarming the butler. Only then did she get careless—caused a bit of a racket. That’s when she was chased out.”
“Was anything taken?” asked Beryl.
“Not so far as Mr. Delancey knows.”
So Guy Delancey didn’t report the stolen letters, thought Jordan. Or perhaps he never even noticed they were missing.
“This time she slipped up,” said Constable Glenn. “But there’s always the chance she’ll strike again. That’s what I came to warn you about. These things come in waves, you see. A certain neighborhood will be chosen. Delancey’s house isn’t that far from here, so Chetwynd could be in her target zone.” He said it with the authority of one who had expert knowledge of the criminal mind. “A residence as grand as yours would be quite a temptation.” Again he looked directly at Jordan.
Again Jordan had that sinking feeling that the good Constable Glenn knew more than he was letting on. Or is it just my guilty conscience?
Constable Glenn rose and addressed Beryl. “You’ll let Lord Lovat know of my concerns?”
“Of course,” said Beryl. “I’m sure we’ll be perfectly all right. After all, we do have a security expert on the premises.” She beamed at Richard. “And he’s quite trustworthy.”
“I’ll look over the household arrangements,” said Richard. “We’ll beef up security as necessary.”
Constable Glenn nodded in satisfaction. “Good day, then. I’ll let you know how things develop.”
They watched the constable march smartly back to his car. As it drove away, up the tree-lined road, Richard said, “I wonder why he felt the need to warn us personally.”
“As a special favor to Uncle Hugh, I’m sure,” said Beryl. “Constable Glenn was employed by MI6 years ago as a ‘watcher’—domestic surveillance. I think he still feels like part of the team.”
“Still, I get the feeling there’s something else going on.”
“A woman burglar,” said Beryl thoughtfully. “My, we have come a long way.” Suddenly she burst out laughing. “Lord, what a relief to hear it’s a she!”
“Why?” asked Richard.
“Oh, it’s just too ridiculous to mention.”
“Tell me, anyway.”
“You see, after last night, I thought—I mean, it occurred to me that—” She laughed harder. She sat back, flush with merriment, and pressed her hand to her mouth. Between giggles she managed to choke out the words. “I thought Jordie might be the cat burglar!”
Richard burst out laughing, as well. Like two giddy school kids, he and Beryl collapsed against each other in a fit of the sillies.
Jordan’s response was to calmly bite off a corner of his toast. Though his throat had gone dry as chalk, he managed to swallow down a mouthful of crumbs. “I fail to see the humor in all this,” he said.
They only laughed harder as he bore the abuse with a look of injured dignity.

CLEA SPOTTED GUY DELANCEY walking toward the refreshment tent. It was the three-minute time-out between the third and fourth chukkers, and a general exodus was under way from the polo viewing stands. Briefly she lost sight of him in the press of people, and she felt a momentary panic that all her detective work would be for nothing. She’d made a few discreet inquiries in the village that morning, had learned that most of the local gentry would almost certainly be headed for the polo field that afternoon. Armed with that tip, she’d called Delancey’s house, introduced herself as Lady So-and-So, and asked the butler if Mr. Delancey was still meeting her at the polo game as he’d promised.
The butler assured her that Mr. Delancey would be at the field.
It had taken her the past hour to track him down in the crowd. She wasn’t about to lose him now.
She pressed ahead, plunging determinedly into the Savile-Row-and-silk-scarf set. The smell of the polo field, of wet grass and horseflesh, was quickly overpowered by the scent of expensive perfumes. With an air of regal assuredness—pure acting on her part—Clea swept into the green-and-white-striped tent and glanced around at the well-heeled crowd. There were dozens of tables draped in linen, silver buckets overflowing with ice and champagne, fresh-faced girls in starched aprons whisking about with trays and glasses. And the ladies—what hats they wore! What elegant vowels tripped from their tongues! Clea paused, her confidence suddenly wavering. Lord, she’d never pull this off…
She glimpsed Delancey by the bar. He was standing alone, nursing a drink. Now or never, she thought.
She swayed over to the counter and edged in close to Delancey. She didn’t look at him, but kept her attention strictly focused on the young fellow manning the bar.
“A glass of champagne,” she said.
“Champagne, coming up,” said the bartender.
As she waited for the drink, she sensed Delancey’s gaze. Casually she shifted around so that she was almost, but not quite, looking at him. He was indeed facing her.
The bartender slid across her drink. She took a sip and gave a weary sigh. Then she drew her fingers slowly, sensuously, through her mane of red hair.
“Been a long day, has it?”
Clea glanced sideways at Delancey. He was fashionably tanned and impeccably dressed in autumn-weight cashmere. Though tall and broad shouldered, his once striking good looks had gone soft and a bit jowly, and the hand clutching the whiskey glass had a faint tremor. What a waste, she thought, and smiled at him prettily.
“It has been rather a long day.” She sighed, and took another sip. “Afraid I’m not very good in airplanes. And now my friends haven’t shown up as promised.”
“You’ve just flown in? From where?”
“Paris. Went on holiday for a few weeks, but decided to cut it short. Dreadfully unfriendly there.”
“I was there just last month. Didn’t feel welcome at all. I recommend you try Provence. Much friendlier.”
“Provence? I’ll keep that in mind.”
He sidled closer. “You’re not English, are you?”
She smiled at him coyly. “You can tell?”
“The accent—what, American?”
“My, you’re quick,” she said, and noted how he puffed up with the compliment. “You’re right, I’m American. But I’ve been living in London for some time. Ever since my husband died.”
“Oh.” He shook his head sympathetically. “I’m so sorry.”
“He was eighty-two.” She sipped again, gazing at him over the rim of her glass. “It was his time.”
She could read the thoughts going through his transparent little head. Filthy rich old man, no doubt. Why else would a lovely young thing marry him? Which makes her a rich widow…
He moved closer. “Did you say your friends were supposed to meet you here?”
“They never showed.” Sighing, she gave him a helpless look. “I took the train up from London. We were supposed to drive back together. Now I suppose I’ll just have to take the train home.”
“There’s no need to do that!” Smiling, he edged closer to her. “I know this may sound a bit forward. But if you’re at loose ends, I’d be delighted to show you ‘round. It’s a lovely village we have here.”
“I couldn’t impose—”
“No imposition at all. I’m at loose ends myself today. Thought I’d watch a little polo, and then go off to the club. But this is a far pleasanter prospect.”
She looked him up and down, as though trying to decide if he could be trusted. “I don’t even know your name,” she protested weakly.
He thrust out his hand in greeting. “Guy Delancey. Delighted to make your acquaintance. And you are…”
“Diana,” she said. Smiling warmly, she shook his hand. “Diana Lamb.”

CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS THREE minutes into the fourth chukker. Oliver Cairncross, mounted on his white-footed roan, swung his mallet on a dead run. The thwock sent the ball flying between the goalposts. Another score for the Bucking’shire Boys! Enthusiastic applause broke out in the viewing stands, and Sir Oliver responded by sweeping off his helmet and dipping his bald head in a dramatic bow.
“Just look at him,” murmured Veronica. “They’re like children out there, swinging their sticks at balls. Will they never grow up?”
Out on the field Sir Oliver strapped his helmet back in place and turned to wave to his wife in the stands. He frowned when he saw that she was leaning toward Jordan.
“Oh, no.” Veronica sighed. “He’s seen you.” At once she rose to her feet, waving and beaming a smile of wifely pride. Sitting back down, she muttered, “He’s so bloody suspicious.”
Jordan looked at her in astonishment. “Surely he doesn’t think that you and I—”
“You are my old chum. Naturally he wonders.”
Yes, of course he does, thought Jordan. Any man married to Veronica would probably spend his lifetime in a perpetual state of doubt.
The ball was tossed. The thunder of hoofbeats, the whack of a mallet announced the resumption of play.
Veronica leaned close to Jordan. “Did you bring them?” she whispered.
“As requested.” He reached into his jacket and withdrew the bundle of letters.
At once she snatched them out of his hand. “You didn’t read them, did you?”
“Of course not.”
“Such a gentleman!” Playfully she reached up and pinched his cheek. “You promise you won’t tell anyone?”
“Not a soul. But this is absolutely the last time, Veronica. From now on, be discreet. Or better yet, honor those marriage vows.”
“Oh, I will, I will!” she declared fervently. She stood and moved toward the aisle.
“Where are you going?” he called.
“To flush these down the loo, of course!” She gave him a gay wave of farewell. “I’ll call you, Jordie!” As she turned to make her way up the aisle, she brushed past a broad-shouldered man. At once she halted, her gaze slanting up with interest at this new specimen of masculinity.
Jordan shook his head in disgust and turned his attention back to the polo game. Men and horses thundered past, chasing that ridiculous rubber ball across the field. Back and forth they flew, mallets swinging, a tangle of sweating men and horseflesh. Jordan had never been much of a polo fan. The few times he’d played the game he’d come away with more than his share of bruises. He didn’t trust horses and horses didn’t trust him and in the inevitable struggle for authority, the beasts had a seven-hundred-pound advantage.
There were still four chukkers left to go, but Jordan had had his fill. He left the viewing stands and headed for the refreshment tent.
In the shade of green-and-white-striped awning, he strolled over to the wine bar and ordered a glass of soda water. With so much celebrating this past week, he’d been waking up every morning feeling a bit pickled.
Sipping his glass of soda, Jordan wandered about looking for an unoccupied table. He spotted one off in a corner. As he approached it, he recognized the occupant of the neighboring table. It was Guy Delancey. Seated across from Delancey, her back to Jordan, was a woman with a magnificent mane of red hair. The couple seemed to be intently engaged in intimate conversation. Jordan thought it best not to disturb them. He walked straight past them and was just sitting down at the neighboring table when he caught a snatch of their dialogue.
“Just the spot to forget one’s troubles,” Guy was saying. “Sun. Sugary beaches. Waiters catering to your every whim. Do consider joining me there.”
The woman laughed. The sound had a throaty, hauntingly familiar ring to it. “It’s rather a leap, don’t you think, Guy?” she said. “I mean, we’ve only just met. To run off with you to the Caribbean…”
Slowly Jordan turned in his chair and stared at the woman. Lustrous cinnamon red hair framed her face, softening its angles. She had fair, almost translucent skin with a hint of rouge. Though she was not precisely beautiful, there was a hypnotic quality to those dark eyes, which slanted like a cat’s above finely carved cheekbones. Cat’s eyes, he thought. Panther’s eyes.
It was her. It had to be her.
As though aware that someone was watching her, she raised her head and looked at Jordan. The instant their gazes met she froze. Even the rouge couldn’t conceal the sudden blanching of her skin. He sat staring at her, and she at him, both of them caught in the same shock of mutual recognition.
What now? wondered Jordan. Should he warn Guy Delancey? Confront the woman on the spot? And what would he say? Guy, old chap, this is the woman I bumped into while burgling your bedroom…
Guy Delancey swiveled around and said cheerily, “Why, hello, Jordan! Didn’t know you were right behind me.”
“I…didn’t want to intrude.” Jordan glanced in the woman’s direction. Still white-faced, she reached for her drink and took a desperate swallow.
Guy noted the direction of Jordan’s gaze. “Have you two met?” he asked.
Their answer came out in a simultaneous rush.
“Yes,” said Jordan.
“No,” said the woman.
Guy frowned. “Aren’t you two sure?”
“What he means,” the woman cut in before Jordan could say a word, “is that we’ve seen each other before. Last week’s auction at Sotheby’s, wasn’t it? But we’ve never actually been introduced.” She looked Jordan straight in the eye, silently daring him to contradict her.
What a brazen hussy, he thought.
“Let me properly introduce you two,” said Guy. “This is Lord Lovat’s nephew, Jordan Tavistock. And this—” Guy swept his hand proudly toward the woman “—is Diana Lamb.”
The woman extended a slender hand across the table as Jordan turned his chair to join them. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Tavistock.”
“So you two met at Sotheby’s,” said Guy.
“Yes. Terribly disappointing collection,” she said. “The St. Augustine estate. One would think there’d be something worth bidding on, but no. I didn’t make a single offer.” Again she looked straight at Jordan. “Did you?”
He saw the challenge in her gaze. He saw something else as well: a warning. You spill the beans, said those cheerful brown eyes, and so will I.
“Well, did you, Jordie?” asked Guy.
“No,” muttered Jordan, staring fiercely at the woman. “Not a one.”
At his capitulation, the woman’s smile broadened to dazzling. He had to concede she’d beaten him this round; next round she’d not be so lucky. He’d have the right words ready, his strategy figured out…
“…dreadful shambles. Pitiful, really. Don’t you agree?” said Guy.
Suddenly aware that he was being addressed, Jordan looked at Guy. “Pardon?”
“All the estates that have fallen on hard times. Did you know the Middletons have decided to open Greystones to public tours?”
“I hadn’t heard,” said Jordan.
“Lord, can you imagine how humiliating that must be? To have all those strangers tramping through one’s house, snapping photos of your loo. I’d never sink so low.”
“Sometimes one has no choice,” said Jordan.
“Certainly one has the choice! You’re not saying you’d ever let the tourists into Chetwynd, would you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Neither would I let them into Underhill. Plus, there’s the problem of security, something I’m acutely tuned in to after that robbery attempt last night. People may claim they’re tourists. But what if they’re really thieves, come to check the layout of the place?”
“I agree with you on that point,” said Jordan, looking straight at the woman. “One can’t be too careful.”
The little thief didn’t bat an eyelash. She merely smiled back, those brown eyes wide and innocent.
“One certainly can’t,” said Guy. “And that goes triply for you. When I think of the fortune in art hanging on your walls…”
“Fortune?” said the woman, her gaze narrowing.
“I wouldn’t call it a fortune,” Jordan said quickly.
“He’s being modest,” said Guy. “Chetwynd has a collection any museum would kill for.”
“All of it under tight security,” said Jordan. “And I mean, extremely tight.”
The hussy laughed. “I believe you, Mr. Tavistock.”
“I certainly hope you do.”
“I’d like to see Chetwynd some day.”
“Hang around with me, darling,” said Guy, “and we might wangle an invitation.”
With a last squeeze of the woman’s hand, Guy rose to his feet. “I’ll have the car sent ‘round, how about it? If we leave now, we’ll avoid the jam in the parking lot.”
“I’ll come with you,” she offered.
“No, no. Do stay and finish your drink. I’ll be back as soon as the car’s ready.” He turned and disappeared into the crowd.
The woman sat back down. No shrinking violet, this one; brazenly she faced Jordan. And she smiled.

FROM ACROSS the refreshment tent Charles Ogilvie spotted the woman. He knew it had to be her; there was no mistaking the hair color. “Cinnamon red” was precisely how one would describe that glorious mane of hers. A superb job, courtesy of Clairol. Ogilvie had found the discarded hair-color box in the bathroom rubbish can when he’d searched her hotel room this morning, had confirmed its effect when he’d pulled a few silky strands from her hairbrush. Miss Clea Rice, it appeared, had done another quick-change job. She was getting better at this. Twice she’d metamorphosed into a different woman. Twice he’d almost lost her.
But she wasn’t good enough to shake him entirely. He still had the advantage of experience. And she had the disadvantage of not knowing what he looked like.
Casually he strolled a few feet along the tent perimeter, to get a better look at her profile, to confirm it was indeed Clea Rice. She’d gone heavy with the lipstick and rouge, but he still recognized those superb cheekbones, that ivory skin. He also had no trouble recognizing Guy Delancey, who had just risen to his feet and was now moving away through the crowd, leaving Clea at the table.
It was the other man he didn’t recognize.
He was a blond chap, long and lean as a whippet, impeccably attired. The man slid into the chair where Delancey had been sitting and faced the Rice woman across the table. It was apparent, just by the intensity of their gazes, that they were not strangers to each other. This was troubling. Where did this blond man fit in? No mention of him had appeared in the woman’s dossier, yet there they were, deep in conversation.
Ogilvie took the lens cap off his telephoto. Moving behind the wine bar, he found a convenient vantage point from which to shoot his photos, unobserved. He focused on the blond man’s profile and clicked off a few shots, then took a few shots of Clea Rice, as well. A new partner? he wondered. My, she was resourceful. Three weeks of tailing the woman had left him with a grudging sense of admiration for her cleverness.
But was she clever enough to stay alive?
He reloaded his camera and began to shoot a second roll.

“I LIKE THE HAIR,” said Jordan.
“Thank you,” the woman answered.
“A bit flashy, though, don’t you think? Attracts an awful lot of attention.”
“That was the whole idea.”
“Ah, I see. Guy Delancey.”
She inclined her head. “Some men are so predictable.”
“It’s almost unfair, isn’t it? The advantage you have over the poor dumb beasts.”
“Why shouldn’t I capitalize on my Godgiven talents?”
“I don’t think you’re putting those talents quite to the use He intended.” Jordan sat back in his chair and returned her steady gaze. “There’s no such company as Nimrod Associates. I’ve checked. Who are you? Is Diana Lamb your real name?”
“Is Jordan Tavistock yours?”
“Yes, and you didn’t answer my question.”
“Because I find you so much more interesting.” She leaned forward, and he couldn’t help but glance down at the deeply cut neckline of her flowered dress.
“So you own Chetwynd,” she said.
He forced himself to focus on her face. “My uncle Hugh does.”
“And that fabulous art collection? Also your uncle’s?”
“The family’s. Collected over the years.”
“Collected?” She smiled. “Obviously I’ve underestimated you, Mr. Tavistock. Not the rank amateur I thought you were.”
“What?”
“Quite the professional. A thief and a gentleman.”
“I’m nothing of the kind!” He shot forward in his chair and inhaled such an intoxicating whiff of her perfume he felt dizzy. “The art has been in my family for generations!”
“Ah. One in a long line of professionals?”
“This is absurd—”
“Or are you the first in the family?”
Gripping the table in frustration, he counted slowly to five and let out a breath. “I am not, and have never been, a thief.”
“But I saw you, remember? Rooting around in the wardrobe. You took something out—papers, I believe. So you are a thief.”
“Not in the same sense you are.”
“If your conscience is so clear, why didn’t you go to the police?”
“Perhaps I will.”
“I don’t think so.” She flashed him that maddening grin of triumph. “I think when it comes to thievery, you’re the more despicable one. Because you make victims of your friends.”
“Whereas you make friends of your victims?”
“Guy Delancey’s not a friend.”
“Astonishing how I misinterpreted that scene between you two! So what’s the plan, little Miss Lamb? Seduction followed by a bit of larceny?”
“Trade secrets,” she answered calmly.
“And why on earth are you so fixated on Delancey? Isn’t it a bit risky to stick with the same victim?”
“Who said he’s the victim?” She lifted the glass to her lips and took a delicate sip. He found her every movement oddly fascinating. The way her lips parted, the way the liquid slid into that moist, red mouth. He found himself swallowing as well, felt his own throat suddenly go parched.
“What is it Delancey has that you want so very badly?” he asked.
“What were those papers you took?” she countered.
“It won’t work, you know.”
“What won’t work?”
“Trying to lump me in your category. You’re the thief.”
“And you’re not?”
“What I lifted from that wardrobe has no intrinsic value. It was a personal matter.”
“So is this for me,” she answered tightly. “A personal matter.”
Jordan frowned as a thought suddenly struck him. Guy Delancey had romanced Veronica Cairncross, and then had threatened to use her letters against her. Had he done the same to other women? Was Diana Lamb, or someone close to her, also a victim of Guy’s?
Or am I trying to talk myself out of the obvious? he thought. The obvious being, this woman was a garden-variety burglar, out for loot. She’d already proven herself adept at housebreaking. What else could she be?
Such a pity, he thought, eyeing that face with its alabaster cheeks and nut brown eyes. Sooner or later those intelligent eyes would be gazing out of a jail cell.
“Is there any way I can talk you out of this?” he asked.
“Why would you?”
“I just think it’s a waste of your apparent…talents. Plus there’s the matter of it being morally wrong, to boot.”
“Right, wrong.” She gave an unconcerned wave of her hand. “Sometimes it isn’t clear which is which.”
This woman was beyond reform! And the fact he knew she was a thief, knew what she had planned, made him almost as guilty if she succeeded.
Which, he decided, she would not.
He said, “I won’t let you, you know. While I’m not particularly fond of Guy Delancey, I won’t let him be robbed blind.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell him how we met?” she asked. Not a flicker of anxiety was in her eyes.
“No. But I’m going to warn him.”
“Based on what evidence?”
“Suspicions.”
“I’d be careful if I were you.” She took another sip of her drink and placidly set the glass down. “Suspicions can go in more than one direction.”
She had him there, and they both knew it. He couldn’t warn Delancey without implicating himself as a thief. If Delancey chose to raise a fuss about it to the police, not only would Jordan’s reputation be irreparably tarnished, Veronica’s, too, would suffer.
No, he’d prefer not to take that risk.
He met Diana’s calm gaze with one just as steady. “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure,” he said, and smiled.
“Meaning what, pray tell?”
“Meaning I plan to make it bloody difficult for you to so much as lift a teaspoon from the man and get away with it.”
For the first time he saw a ripple of anxiety in her eyes. Her brightly painted red lips drew tight. “You don’t understand. This is not your concern—”
“Of course it is. I plan to watch you like a hawk. I’m going to follow you and Delancey everywhere. Pop up when you least expect it. Make a royal nuisance of myself. In short, Miss Lamb, I’ve adopted you as my crusade. And if you make one false move, I’m going to cry wolf.” He sat back, smiling. “Think about it.”
She was thinking about it, and none too happily, judging by her expression.
“You can’t do this,” she whispered.
“I can. I have to.”
“There’s too much at stake! I won’t let you ruin it—”
“Ruin what?”
She was about to answer when a hand closed over her shoulder. She glanced up sharply at Guy Delancey, who’d just returned and now stood behind her.
“Sorry if I startled you,” he said cheerily. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Yes, everything’s fine.” Though the color had drained from her face, she still managed to smile, to flash Delancey a look of coquettish promise. “Is the car ready?”
“Waiting at the gate, my lady.” Guy helped her from her chair. Then he gave Jordan a careless nod of farewell. “See you around, Jordan.”
Jordan caught a last glimpse of the woman’s face, looking back at him in smothered anger. Then, with shoulders squared, she followed Delancey into the crowd.
You’ve been warned, Diana Lamb, thought Jordan. Now he’d see if she heeded that warning. And just in case she didn’t…
Jordan pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket. Gingerly he picked up the woman’s champagne glass by the lower stem and peered at the smudge of ruby red lipstick. He smiled. There, crystal clear on the surface of the glass, was what he’d been looking for.
Fingerprints.

OGILVIE FINISHED SHOOTING his third roll of film and clipped the lens cap back on his telephoto. He had more than enough shots of the blond man. By tonight he’d have the images transmitted to London and, with any luck, an ID would be forthcoming. The fact Clea Rice had apparently picked up an unknown associate disturbed him, if only because he’d had no inkling of it. As far as he knew, the woman traveled alone, and always had.
He’d have to find out more about the blond chap.
The woman rose from her chair and departed with Guy Delancey. Ogilvie tucked his camera in his bag and left the tent to follow them. He kept a discreet distance, far enough back so that he would blend in with the crowd. She was an easy subject to tail, with all that red hair shimmering in the sunlight. The worst possible choice for anyone trying to avoid detection. But that was Clea Rice, always doing the unexpected.
The couple headed for the gate.
Ogilvie picked up his pace. He slipped through the gates just in time to see that head of red hair duck into a waiting Bentley.
Frantically Ogilvie glanced around the parking lot and spotted his black MG socked in three rows deep. By the time he could extricate it from that sea of Jaguars and Mercedes, Delancey and the woman could be miles away.
In frustration he watched Delancey’s Bentley drive off. So much for following them; he’d have to catch up with her later. No problem. He knew which hotel she was staying at, knew that she’d paid for the next three nights in advance.
He decided to shift his efforts to the blond man.
Fifteen minutes later he spotted the man leaving through the gates. By that time Ogilvie had his car ready and waiting near the parking-lot exit. He saw the man step into a champagne gold Jaguar, and he took note of the license number. The Jaguar pulled out of the parking lot.
So did Ogilvie’s MG.
His quarry led him on a long and winding route through rolling fields and trees, leaves already tinted with the fiery glow of autumn. Blueblood country, thought Ogilvie, noting the sleek horses in the pasture. Whoever was this fellow, anyway?
The gold Jaguar finally turned off the main road, onto a private roadway flanked by towering elms. From the main road Ogilvie could just glimpse the house that lay beyond those elms. It was magnificent, a stone-and-turret manor surrounded by acres of gardens.
He glanced at the manor name. It was mounted in bronze on the stone pillars marking the roadway entrance.
Chetwynd.
“You’ve come up in the world, Clea Rice,” murmured Ogilvie.
Then he turned the car around. It was four o’clock. He’d have just enough time to call in his report to London.
VICTOR VAN WELDON HAD HAD a bad day. The congestion in his lungs was worse, his doctors said, and it was time for the oxygen again. He thought he’d weaned himself from that green tank. But now the tank was back, hooked onto his wheelchair, and the tubes were back in his nostrils. And once again he was feeling his mortality.
What a time for Simon Trott to insist on a meeting.
Van Weldon hated to be seen in such a weak and vulnerable condition. Through the years he had prided himself on his strength. His ruthlessness. Now, to be revealed for what he was—an old and dying man—would grant Simon Trott too much of an advantage. Although Van Weldon had already named Trott his successor, he was not yet ready to hand over the company reins. Until I draw my last breath, he thought, the company is mine to control.
There was a knock on the door. Van Weldon turned his wheelchair around to face his younger associate as he walked into the room. It was apparent, by the look on Trott’s face, that the news he brought was not good.
Trott, as usual, was dressed in a handsomely tailored suit that showed his athletic frame to excellent advantage. He had it all—youth, blond good looks, all the women he could possibly hope to bed. But he does not yet have the company, thought Van Weldon. He is still afraid of me. Afraid of telling me this latest news.
“What have you learned?” asked Van Weldon.
“I think I know why Clea Rice headed for England,” said Trott. “There have been rumors…on the black market…” He paused and cleared his throat.
“What rumors?”
“They say an Englishman has been boasting about a secret purchase he made. He claims he recently acquired…” Trott looked down. Reluctantly he finished. “The Eye of Kashmir.”
“Our Eye of Kashmir? That is impossible.”
“That is the rumor.”
“The Eye has not been placed on the market! There is no way anyone could acquire it.”
“We have not inventoried the collection since it was moved. There is a possibility…”
The two men exchanged looks. And Van Weldon understood. They both understood. We have a thief among our ranks. A traitor who has dared to go against us.
“If Clea Rice has also heard rumors of this sale, it could be disastrous for us,” said Van Weldon.
“I’m quite aware of that.”
“Who is this Englishman?”
“His name is Guy Delancey. We’re trying to locate his residence now.”
Van Weldon nodded. He sank back in his wheelchair and for a moment let the oxygen wash through his lungs. “Find Delancey,” he said softly. “I have a feeling that when you do, you will also find Clea Rice.”

CHAPTER FOUR
“TO NEW FRIENDS,” said Guy as he handed Clea a glass brimming with champagne.
“To new friends,” she murmured and took a sip. The champagne was excellent. It would go to her head if she wasn’t careful, and now, more than ever, she needed to keep her head. Such a sticky situation! How on earth was she to case the joint while this slobbery Casanova was all over her? She’d planned to let him make only a few preliminary moves, but it was clear Delancey had far more than just a harmless flirtation in mind.
He sat down beside her on the flowered settee, close enough for her to get a good look at his face. For a man in his late forties, he was still reasonably attractive, his skin relatively unlined, his hair still jet black. But the watery eyes and the sagging jowls were testimony to a dissipated life.
He leaned closer, and she had to force herself not to pull back in repulsion as those eyes swam toward her. To her relief, he didn’t kiss her—yet. The trick was to hold him off while she dragged as much information as she could out of him.
She smiled coyly. “I love your house.”
“Thank you.”
“And the art! Quite a collection. All originals, I take it?”
“Naturally.” Guy waved proudly at the paintings on the walls. “I haunt the auction houses. At Sotheby’s, if they see me coming, they rub their hands together in glee. Of course, this isn’t the best of my collection.”
“It isn’t?”
“No, I keep the finer pieces in my London town house. That’s where I do most of my entertaining. Plus, it has far better security.”
Clea felt her heart sink. Darn, was that where he kept it, then? His London town house? Then she’d wasted the week here in Buckinghamshire.
“It’s a major concern of mine these days,” he murmured, leaning even closer toward her. “Security.”
“Against theft, you mean?” she inquired innocently.
“I mean security in general. The wolf at the door. The chill of a lonely bed.” He bent toward her and pressed his sodden lips to hers. She shuddered. “I’ve been searching so long for the right woman,” he whispered. “A soul mate…”
Do women actually fall for this line? she wondered.
“And when I looked in your eyes today—in that tent—I thought perhaps I’d found her.”
Clea fought the urge to burst out laughing and managed—barely—to return his gaze with one just as steady. Just as smoldering. “But one must be careful,” she murmured.
“I agree.”
“Hearts are so very fragile. Especially mine.”
“Yes, yes! I know.” He kissed her again, more deeply. This was more than she could bear.
She pulled back, rage making her breath come hard and fast. Guy didn’t seem at all disturbed by it; if anything, he took her heavy breathing as a sign of passion.
“It’s too soon, too fast,” she panted.
“It’s the way it was meant to be.”
“I’m not ready—”
“I’ll make you ready.” Without warning he grasped her breast and began to knead it vigorously like a lump of bread dough.
Clea sprang to her feet and moved away. It was either that or slug him in the mouth. At the moment she was all in favor of the latter. In a shaky voice she said, “Please, Guy. Maybe later. When we know each other better. When I feel I know you. As a person, I mean.”
“A person?” He shook his head in frustration. “What, exactly, do you need to know?”
“Just the small things that tell me about you. For instance…” She turned and gestured to the paintings. “I know you collect art. But all I know is what I see on these walls. I have no idea what moves you, what appeals to you. Whether you collect other things. Besides paintings, I mean.” She gave him a questioning look.
He shrugged. “I collect antique weapons.”
“There now, you see?” Smiling, she came toward him. “I find that fascinating! It tells me you have a masculine streak of adventure.”
“It does?” He looked pleased. “Yes, I suppose it does.”
“What sort of weapons?”
“Antique swords. Pistols. A few daggers.”
Her heart gave an extra thump at that last word. Daggers. She moved closer to him. “Ancient weaponry,” she murmured, “is wonderfully erotic, I think.”
“You do?”
“Yes, it—it conjures up knights in armor, ladies in castle towers.” She clasped her hands and gave a visible shiver of excitement. “It gives me goose bumps just to think of it.”
“I had no idea it had that effect on women,” he said in wonder. With sudden enthusiasm he rose from the couch. “Come with me, my lady,” he said, taking her hand. “And I’ll show you a collection that’ll send shivers down your spine. I’ve just picked up a new treasure—something I purchased on the sly from a very private source.”
“You mean the black market?”
“Even more private than that.”
She let him guide her into the hallway and up the stairs. So he keeps it on the second floor, she thought. Probably the bedroom. To think she had gotten so close to it that night.
Somewhere, a phone was ringing. Guy ignored it.
They reached the top of the stairs. He turned right, toward the east wing—the bedroom—and suddenly halted.
“Master Delancey?” called a voice. “You’ve a telephone call.”
Guy glanced back down the stairs at the gray-haired butler who stood on the lower landing. “Take a message,” he snapped.
“But it—it’s—”
“Yes?”
The butler cleared his throat. “It’s Lady Cairncross.”
Guy winced. “What does she want?”
“She wishes to see you immediately.”
“You mean now?”
Guy hurried down the stairs to take the receiver. From the upper landing Clea listened to the conversation below.
“Not a good time, Veronica,” Guy said. “Couldn’t you…look, I have other things to do right now. You’re being unreasonable. No. Veronica, you mustn’t! We’ll talk about this some other—Hello? Hello?” He frowned at the receiver in dismay, then dropped it back in the cradle.
“Sir?” inquired the butler. “Might I be of service?”
Guy glanced up, suddenly aware of his predicament. “Yes! Yes, you’ll have to see that Miss Lamb’s brought home.”
“Home?”
“Take her to a hotel! In the village.”
“You mean—now?”
“Yes, bring the car ‘round. Go!”
Guy scampered up the steps, snatched Clea by the arm and began to hustle her down to the front door. “Dreadfully sorry, darling, but something’s come up. Business, you understand.”

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